


Sempiternal

by madryn



Series: sterek ficlets! [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by American Assassin, M/M, Minor Violence, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 15:59:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13274922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madryn/pseuds/madryn
Summary: A sliver of the life shared between two men whose job is to kill, but find moments in between for their love.





	Sempiternal

**Author's Note:**

> Mild violence for the murder of a man, although it is not in much detail. Also features portions of hard language. 
> 
> Method of killing was taken from Vince Flynn's book American Assassin, in which this was inspired.
> 
> Enjoy. :-)

"You know we shouldn't be doing this, right?" 

His voice was deep and husky, sending shivers down his bed partner's spine. A heavy arm was thrown over the latter's waist and a muscled thigh was pressed into the bend of a leg.

"Since when do I ever do anything the way that I should be, Derek?" The latter and more lithe of the two spoke, his lips pulling into a haughty smirk. Though Derek could not see it, the man could sense the expression plastered on his partner's face. Too much time together combined with both mens' fine tuned senses led to an intimate understanding of each other; it came in handly, mostly - sometimes, it was too easy to hurt the other. They were so finely attuned to the other that they knew where and how to strike deeply and painfully; knew how to get the other panting and angry and bitter. To be fair, it usually ended up as good foreplay, if anything.

"The day you actually listen to me, Stiles, is the day I forget how to shoot a Beretta." The words were whispered gruffly into Stiles' ear as Derek curled the other man more into the curve of his body. It was rare for them to have moments like this one. Moments where they could stop and breathe each other in for as long as they cared, skin on skin and whispered promises that they both knew would not leave the inches of space between their lips. 

Stiles only chuckled in reply, moving his hand backwards and giving Derek's hip a comforting squeeze. The muscle underneath his hand barely gave at all, showing just how dramatically perfect the man's exercise regime truly was. It was a fact that Stiles could respect, and took the time to thoroughly appreciate whenever he could.

The sun was nonexistent and their room was cold but for the body heat they shared and the fireplace softly flickering across the room. The two men were in Russia; a cold and dismal country. At least, it was in their line of work. 

They had arrived a week earlier to scope out the scene. It was routine for Derek and Stiles to systematically categorize their target's movements and his motives and his daily timetable. A week was all the time that they had been given: the man was due to return to the States by then, which would make him a near unaccomplishable feat to overcome. Killing him in the States would have been easy, yes, but the law and the police would have too easily become a problem. That was why it needed to be done now, in the cold winter of a country littered with bad, bad men.

The man had been easy enough to kill, of course.

Derek had been across the park when Stiles had made the kill as they had planned it. 

Stiles had been dressed much too lightly for the cold of a Russian winter, but nobody paid him any mind as he ran along a park's many walkways. His target was sitting upon a bench next to one of these walkways, leaning back and enjoying the rising dawn before a long day's work.

(And by work, Stiles meant fucking prostitutes left and right, which he found personally disgusting. Not the women, no, but the fact that such a wealthy man would be so despicable in his treatment of the aforementioned women and regularly dump them in a nearby river. The man was disgusting and a coward and Stiles could not wait to put a bullet in his head.)

Derek had whistled, loud and clear to Stiles' trained ears.

Stiles barely slowed down as he slipped a hand into the top of his windbreaker, pulled his Beretta out of his left shoulder holster and fired it in one practiced, fluid motion. 

The man's brains had splattered the park bench in a grotesque display and Stiles had continued on his run as if nothing had just occurred. He had ran for another mile, before turning into an alley and grabbing a backpack from behind a dumpster.

He changed quickly and methodically into the clothes within the backpack and replaced the contents of the bag with the clothes he had been wearing when he made the kill. The shoulder holster too was removed and in turn the Beretta - Stiles' favorite - was placed into the holster hooked into the waistband of his new pants. 

After changing his clothing and pulling a nondescript black wool beanie over his head, Stiles continued through a system of wet, indeterminable alleyways at a consistent run for miles until he reached a weathered and cracked road: said road was empty and barren, for it was in a rather bad part of town and the buildings around it nearly unlivable. On the opposite side of the river, however, there was the sharp decline that led into the rough, rousing waters of a canal. 

Checking around himself, Stiles moved across the river and began walking up stream, methodically dumping articles of clothing every so often. It would have been safer to dump the Beretta, as Stiles was ought to do, but it was his favorite and he had a feeling he might need it. Thus, when the clothing and the bag had been separately dispersed into the black channel, Stiles made his way back into the alleyways. 

After running for approximately twenty-six minutes via his trusty black watch, Stiles slowed to a walk and slipped out into a busy road. Flurries of snow traveled down slowly upon the people and cars honked viciously as drivers screeched at each other in their native Russian tongue.

As an assassin was trained to do from the very beginning, Stiles was always aware of his surroundings. This is how he recognized the nondescript car that had been following him for the past mile and a half. When he arrived to a busy junction, the assassin waited, head bent, for the aforementioned car to pull up astride him on the road. Though the windows were tinted nearly pitch black, there was little doubt to the person within the vehicle. 

Slipping into the backseat in one fluid motion, Stiles immediately trained his eyes on said driver.

"Hey, Derbear. Everything go well on your end?" Though the nickname had a light connotation, the words were spoken seriously and without the normal lightheartedness attached to it. There was no room for joking after the few vital hours post-assassination. 

"I swept the safe house; it's clear of our prints and anything that would place us there with no difficulty. Everything went smoothly, too. I checked in with my handler, something you should do too, soon. I have our passports in the bag next to you, and soon we will be arriving at the airport to get the hell out of this country."

"Good. Do you have any assignments after this one?" 

"No," Derek met Stiles' eyes in the rear view mirror. "Do you?"

"Nope." The lithe man replied, then smirked. "Want to have crazy sex in Germany?"

"You know I'd love to, Stiles," Derek winked, flashing the other man a rare and unadulterated smile. 

"Well then we better fucking make it to Germany without any problems or I'm going to be pissed." Stiles said, smirking.

The look that overcame Derek's face told Stiles that the older man felt the same exact way.

————

Germany was fucking fantastic.


End file.
